These dreams go on

If I keep this up, my dreams could become a weekly feature here at El Bloggo. They're still going, and I'm still remembering them. So I'll keep writing about them. Let's see what you think of this one, Dream Doctors:

My refrigerator is full of melting pints of ice cream, like I've been collecting them. I don't know if I forgot that I left them to thaw, or was just too lazy to throw them out. I open one, see it's melted, and then put it back. I open another, which I remember as mint chocolate chip, and put it back. And so on. But I can't find one that's still frozen.

At the bottom of the refrigerator, the entire shelf is full of cake. Nothing's in a box. It's like someone took a giant cake and just stuffed it into the compartment. The stuff is drooping over the lettuce crisper. It's white cake with white frosting. I try to push it back in, but it squeezes between my fingers and falls over my wrists. From there, I scoop out a big chunk of cake, and put it on a paper plate to eat. But I take one look at it and feel nauseous. And that's when I wake up.

I did have a craving for ice cream over the weekend, but didn't indulge. Is that what the dream is all about?

Easy like Sunday morning

I don't do these too often (or post them here, anyway), but hey, it's Sunday morning. I'm feeling whimsical as I drink my coffee, and I have a soft spot for superheroes.


Your results:
You are Spider-Man

Spider-Man 85% Superman 65% Hulk 65% Iron Man 60% Green Lantern 60% Batman 60% Supergirl 53% Robin 50% The Flash 45% Catwoman 40% Wonder Woman 33%

You are intelligent, witty, a bit geeky and have great power and responsibility.

Click here to take the "Which Superhero are you?" quiz...


With great boredom comes lazy blogging.

Doesn't feel like a favor

Here's one for the homeowners out there (stop giggling, Beavis):

What's better? Your street covered in snow, still difficult to drive in, or that same snow, along with ice and old leaves, pushed up into a wall at the end of your driveway, thanks to snow plows?

I can tell you which option my back would choose.

I need another heating pad. And an ibuprofen.

I've got a movie itch

Here's a pet peeve for the weekend: Movies I want to see that open in New York and Los Angeles first. (Stop laughing, Mis Hooz.)


Look, I know I'll get a chance to see Brokeback Mountain at some point. Maybe even next week. But after reading so much about it, and seeing Ang Lee and Heath Ledger interviewed on The Charlie Rose Show this week, I'm ready to see it now. And it's not here. Screwed again in the Midwest, man.

While I'm waiting, however, the New Yorker has done something very cool, posting Annie Proulx's original short story, upon which the movie's based, on its website. (Thanks to Pop Candy, which has become one of my favorite blogs, for the heads-up.)

▪ ▪ David Poland has changed his views on the film, after repeated viewings, which has been interesting to read. (Watch out for the spoilers.) I wish more film critics would do this.

▪ ▪ I've also enjoyed reading Dave Cullen's anticipation of the movie and explanation of why this movie it's so important to him. He's written and collected a lot about it, which can be found here.

On another movie note, have you seen the trailer for Match Point? If not, it looks like an exciting thriller, and not just because my fantasy girlfriend, Scarlett Johansson, is in it. But if you have, were you surprised when you saw who directed the film, like I was?

Meanwhile, Syriana looks like a good one. I'll try to catch that this weekend. George Clooney is my brother in beardom.

(Image from "The Boondocks" © 2005 Aaron McGruder)

Carry that weight

At a bookstore yesterday, I spent most of my time next to a table stacked with books about John Lennon. There's just an astounding amount of material on the man available right now - new biographies, photography books, magazines, etc. I already own plenty of stuff on Lennon and The Beatles, but I still considered buying one or two of the books for myself since I won't get one as a gift (Happy Holidays!).

Eventually, all the reading and perusing blew dust off whichever part of my brain remembers such things, and I realized that we were at that time of year, the anniversary (which doesn't seem like the right word) of John Lennon's death.

And now, it's been 25 years since Lennon was killed. I was a little kid back then, and thanks to my uncle, very familiar with the Beatles' music. And my dad knew that. The morning after it happened, he gave me the news as he fixed breakfast for us. He heard about it while watching Monday Night Football. It's a rather vivid childhood memory.

“Why would someone shoot him?” I asked him. He said he didn't know. Thinking about it now, I'm glad he didn't try to explain how insane the world could be. No kid should have to learn about the terrible things people can do to each other while wearing Superman pajamas and eating Cheerios.

I remember trying to call my uncle - a huge Beatles fan - after I got home from school, but he didn't answer the phone. When I saw him days later, I asked him the same question I asked my dad. I got the same answer.

Four years ago, when I visited Mis Hooz in New York for the first time, I told her I wanted to see where Lennon died. She asked me why I would want to do such a thing. It was a good question, one I didn't know how to answer.

I went to the Dakota, stood at the exact spot I recalled from old news footage and photos, and began to take pictures. After snapping two or three, I lowered my camera and noticed someone walking by. He looked at me and shook his head. And then I felt like shit, like I was being disrespectful and ghoulish.

Looking for some shade (and probably a place to hide from embarrassment), I walked across the street to Central Park. I had no idea Strawberry Fields or the "Imagine" mosaic were there. But of course, that's what I found.

It was really quite a sight. Rays of sunlight streamed through the trees and reflected off the white mosaic tiles. From a distance, in the middle of a courtyard, surrounded by an iron barricade, it almost looked like a pool of white light. Outside the barricade were dozens of shells of melted wax, from the candles that had been lit in tribute.

In today's San Francisco Chronicle, Steven Winn writes, "We don't just remember Lennon. We remember how we remember him." Given the preceding 500 words in this entry, I'd say there's certainly some truth to that. Most every time I read about him or listen to his music, I think about that visit.

Tonight, there will be a vigil in Central Park to honor Lennon. I wish I could be there.

♦ From today until Sunday, an exhibit of John Lennon's art will be on display at the Ann Arbor Art Show. I have a feeling I'll check it out.

♦ Today's New York Times has an Op-Ed piece by Jack Mitchell, who photographed Lennon a month before he died.

Radio's slippery slope into suckiness

The only person who kept me from listening to sports talk radio in the afternoons no longer works at Detroit's WDET. And I don't want to listen to sports talk radio all afternoon.

Martin Bandyke's show was smart, eclectic, and entertaining, and one of the many things I missed about Michigan while living in Iowa for two years. Almost every time I listened, I felt like I discovered a new artist or learned something new about music. That is nowhere to be found these days on regular radio, and from what I read and hear, that's a problem plaguing the airwaves all over the country.

I hope he finds another radio home in Detroit some time soon. If not, it's everyone's loss.

Hey man, what's on your face?

For those you who have been asking, the beard is starting to come in. It's been just about ten days, and I'm not sure whether or not I should be happy with the progress. But my face is moving past the stage where it just looks like I rubbed my cheeks with charcoal. So I think I'm happy about that.

I caught myself stroking what hair is on my face the other day while thinking, which I take as a clear sign that I'm ready to have a beard.


I'm not sure I'm going to take it to "Al Qaeda" lengths, however. For one thing, as I said last week, I'm annoyed enough by having my laptop searched at airports, so I don't think I'll agree with full body cavity exams. Secondly, after reading about ZZ Top's Billy Gibbons in this week's New Yorker, I'm pretty sure the beard's not moving far past my jawline. Why? Gibbons sips beer through a straw, so the suds won't get into his beard.

So is this worth the trouble if I have to drink beer through a straw? Would the manly points I'd earn from showing the world I have the testosterone to grow a beard automatically be lost as soon as I slid a straw into my bottle of Harp? Or would it all even out at the end?

I'm glad I have something on my face to stroke as I contemplate this.

(Image from "Get Fuzzy" © 2005 Darby Conley)

What did you just say?

Yesterday, while I was in line (not "on line," which is a pet peeve of our New York bureau chief, Mis Hooz) at a grocery store, the couple in front of me got into a minor argument when the man tried to gently touch the woman's face.

"Eeew!" she said. "Your hand stinks!"

She didn't say exactly what his hand smelled like. One can only imagine. But judging from the way she scrunched up her face and reeled back, it wasn't pleasant. Or maybe she's just really averse to public displays of affection.

As you might imagine, the guy was mortified. He sheepishly tried to defend himself - "What? What do you mean?" - but if he hadn't been trapped between people in line, he might have run away to wait in the car. He looked over at me to see if I heard what she said, but I was pretending really, really hard to be really interested in the organic lip balms on display by the register.

Hell yes, I heard her. Anyone standing back by the dairy section looked up to see what smelled.

Of course, as I drove home, I knew I'd write about this. And I began to wonder: What is the worst - or most embarrassing - thing someone has said to you in public? Is there anything that a woman could say to a man that would be worse than anything a man said to a woman? How important is the setting in such a situation?

Here's the first thing that came to my mind, which might disappoint you a bit: A few years ago, while working at Borders, I was talking with one of my co-workers after returning from lunch. Just before she left to take her lunch break, she gave me a strange look, and then asked "Did you eat salami for lunch?"

And I always chew on gum or a mint after lunch, just to avoid such a situation. I wash my hands too. So I either forgot that day, or was just emanating the scent of salted, cured meat. Anyway, I've never eaten anything close to salami on a lunch break ever again.

I'm sure I'll think of something more embarrassing later. Or maybe we can share stories from grocery store lines.

(Image from "Red Meat" © 2005 Max Cannon)

What is going on inside my head?

I'd like to thank everyone who chimed in on "To Beard or Not To Beard." If I ever want to grow hair on another part of my body, I'll remember to run it by you guys first. You're the best.

I also received some interesting comments last week when I asked you to consult upon a couple of my recent dreams. And I'd like some insight from you again, because my subconscious imagination is apparently still quite active. (Maybe it's the bedbugs biting.)

Before this past month, I was one of those people who hardly ever remembered his dreams. Yet these have been so vivid, I still remember them later in the day, long after I've woken up. So let's see what you think of these.

♦ In the first dream, whenever I held a conversation with someone, he or she kept pointing out that every time I said a word that ended in "s," like "guess," it would come out sounding like a "z." I didn't even notice myself doing it. Yet each person I talked to was getting extremely annoyed with this, so I tried to stop - even though I didn't think I was doing it.

But I couldn't stop, no matter how hard I tried. One of the conversations took place at a Starbucks, and the person I was with got so frustrated, she got up and left. Maybe it was that Starbuckzzz coffee.

♦ In the second, I ran into an old girlfriend while Christmas shopping. I haven't seen this person in over ten years. We were at a toy store; I was buying gifts for my cousin, she was vague about whom she was buying for. The conversation was really enjoyable, so we continued at a bar after we finished shopping.

I told her I was sorry for being insecure and immature while we dated. She said she often thought I was a sad person, and wondered if that's why I constantly made jokes. Then she asked about my father, knowing that we didn't get along so well back then. I told her he passed away. And then she began crying. Apparently, that was some sort of aphrodisiac because we got a hotel room after that and spent the night together.

The next morning, as I'm getting dressed, she tells me she has to go but really hopes we can start seeing each other again. And I can't believe what's happening. This affirms my belief in the natural balance of life; something bad is almost always followed by something good.

Later that night, I'm at another bar with a friend, and he sees my old girlfriend. She's scanning the crowd, looking for someone. Once she sees us, she comes over and sits down with us. After she catches up with my friend, she turns to me with a smile and I figure we're going to tell him about what happened the night before. She then tells me that she's married with two kids and is going back to Washington after Christmas.

Getting fuzzy?

So I'm thinking of growing a beard.

I can hear most, if not all, of my female readers and friends screaming "NO, NO! PLEASE GOD, NO! ARE YOU A MORON?"

And a hefty percentage of my male readers and friends are probably wondering whether I actually want women to find me attractive. Otherwise, how would I meet one, exchange "me toos," play doctor, and eventually give the world more Casselberrys?

Lil' Sis thinks I'm insane. Mama Cass wonders if she'll have to introduce the potentially hirsute caveman she once spawned as "her son."

But I go through this nearly every winter. First of all, the weather gets colder. And this face could use the protection. Those elements are tough on my supple, pinchable cheeks. Maybe (HA!) I've gone through a dating drying spell, which makes me question my manhood. And what better way to gauge testosterone production than to see how much hair you can grow?

This isn't a final decision. A few things are giving me pause. One is itching. I know I won't be able to stand it. And if any chin hair somehow gets stuck in a sweatshirt or coat zipper, I'll go berserk. I also think I'll look like an idiot. How do I know? Well, I ran an image with various calculations and scenarios into the IDC-3000, and this is what came out:




To beard or not to beard; that is the question.

Come out to plaaa-ay...

Don't you love it when you see an article that addresses something you'd been wondering about? I got that feeling when I saw Allen Barra's piece in yesterday's Salon about the cult popularity of The Warriors, which is being fed by a special edition DVD release and a video game based on the movie.

A video game based on a late-70's cult movie? Is there really an audience for such a thing? Obviously, the Rockstar Games guys think so.

I didn't realize The Warriors had such a following. I recall watching the movie a few times when I was a kid, after we got cable. But I can barely remember what the movie was about. I remember the "Warriors, come out to plaaaay-ay" taunt, which I may have imitated while playing with my friends, along with "Caaan yooou dig iiiit?" But that's about it.

(Image from The Warriors Movie Site)

I like the cultural precedent this could set, though. In ten years, who knows what people will look back on and remember lovingly? (I'm sure VH1 will give us a few ideas. They're probably already working on that show.) But if we're talking about special edition DVDs and video games, I'm putting in a request right now.

Road House.

You read that right. Where's the "director's cut" DVD for that one? Who's working on the video game? Rockstar Games, are you on it?

The slogan is already there: "Pain don't hurt." Or maybe "Don't eat the white mint" would be better.

I want to be Dalton, to beat the $#!+ out of a bar full of guys, and "take the biggest guy in the world, shatter his knee and he'll drop like a stone." Tell me that video game wouldn't be #@%ing. Sweet.

Allen Barra, there's your next writing assignment. Save it for ten years from now. And if you don't want to write it, I will. Salon, you know how to find me. "My way... or the highway."

Thankful for what... ?

There's an episode on the first season of House in which someone finds out his comatose wife's illness was likely contracted through sex with another man. While sitting by her bedside, he confesses that a part of him hopes she doesn't recover because of how she got the disease. The man then asks one of the doctors if this makes him a terrible person.

I was anticipating an awful Thanksgiving holiday. Not just because it was going to be my first Thanksgiving without my father, but because relationships among certain people who were going to be at dinner have become - to be diplomatic - strained. In the weeks and days leading up to the holiday, I just could not imagine this going well. I envisioned plenty of scenarios that ended with me taking a swing at someone with a turkey leg. Leaving dinner early had become an inevitability in my imagination.

But Thanksgiving was actually quite pleasant. There was still some tension over unresolved issues between me and a relative or two. I also couldn't resist arguing with the conservatives in the room. And my mother chose to hide from everyone and wouldn't eat. Overall, however, I thought the evening was nice.

(Though we did get majorly screwed on leftovers. A 20 lb. turkey for seven people, and all we got to take home was a #@$%ing drumstick? I'm making my own turkey this week, man. I want my turkey sandwiches!)

As I drove home, it occurred to me that I had nothing interesting to write about. Thanksgiving had given me nothing. And I was anticipating plenty. I figured I'd be annoyed, if not outright angry, and would vomit my bile all over this blog. But I enjoyed myself. And I was slightly disappointed by that.

Does that make me a terrible person?

(Image from "The Boondocks" © 2005 Aaron McGruder)

Movie Week -- Jarhead

Here's one reason I was eager to see Jarhead: The author of the original book, Anthony Swofford, studied at the Iowa Writers Workshop, and I was able to meet him when he returned to Iowa City for a reading last year. Even though we all say it's about literature and the work, there's a healthy amount of envy swirling around when someone gets his or her book made into a movie.

To Swofford's credit, he talked more about the book and the writing process, and resisted opportunities to name-drop (unlike me in that first paragraph). And no one asked him how it felt to have Jake Gyllenhaal play him in a movie. So he must be a better man than me. Because if Jake was playing me in a movie, I'm sure it'd come up in conversation. Frequently. Especially to the ladies sitting in the front row at one of my readings. Or at the bar afterwards.

"Why yes, my ass looks just like Jake Gyllenhaal's. Hey, I have a Santa hat in my car! Wanna go back to my place?"

Okay, I think it's only fair to give those who know me a minute to collect themselves while they try to get the visual of me naked with only a Santa hat covering up my nethers out of their minds.

(Image from A Socialite's Life)

Ready? Where was I? Before my ass, I mean.

By the way, in case you're thinking I Googled "Jake Gyllenhaal," "naked," and "ass" to find that image, it actually comes from Fried Rice Thoughts' New York Bureau Chief, Mis Hooz. Painstaking research on that task. She really busted a hump, and earned every penny of her paycheck. Thanks, Hoozie.

Hello? Mis Hooz? Still with us? Are you going to read the rest of this post? I'm still writing here.

Okay, she's off to get a bootleg of the movie from some dude near her subway stop on the way home.

Ian! What about the movie?

Here's one reason I wasn't eager to see Jarhead: I fear Sam Mendes is an overrated director. In fairness, I only have two films to go on, which isn't a large sample size. But I would argue (and have in the past, though not on this blog) that American Beauty largely owed its quality to Alan Ball's writing. (I think Six Feet Under supports that theory.) And with Road to Perdition, Mendes took a movie about mobsters, rolled with the theme of fathers and sons, and tried to aspire to something higher, which resulted in a surprisingly boring (though nice-looking) film. Gun violence has rarely been so elegant.

So I was worried that Mendes would take many of Swofford's vivid descriptions of desert landscapes and make a movie that looked beautiful on screen, yet somehow made soldiers and warfare seem dull. But maybe I'm just jealous that he's married to Kate Winslet, and I'm not.

Fortunately, he didn't make a boring film. I actually thought Jarhead was much better than the critics have been saying. It's disturbing, provocative, and funny - much like Swofford's book. He also somehow takes seemingly every cliche from war movies (dickhead drill sargeants, guys who love war a little too much, soldiers going crazy) and manages to create more of a tribute to those films than an imitation.

I will say, however, that the story feels a little aimless. There's not much of a narrative. But that's the spirit of the book. These guys were trained to become elite killing machines and were pumped up with the idea that they'd shoot holes into hundreds of Iraqi soldiers and become American heroes, only to get shipped out to the desert and... wait. And never get to confront the enemy they were conditioned to destroy. What do you do with all that free time and all that aggressive energy screaming to be released?

Not exactly the stuff of beginning-middle-end. Or Act I-Act II- Act III. And that works just fine in a book - especially a memoir. Not so sure it works in a movie, though. But Mendes gave it his best try. So I'll take back that "overrated" crack. Yes, I said "crack." Go ahead and scroll back up to the Jake picture. Geez. And here I was, about to write another 500 words on translating a book to a movie...

Glad to wake up

Do we have any amateur (or professional) psychoanalysts or dream interpreters in the house? These have been my last two dreams, both of which have been quite vivid:

1) All of the plumbing in my house clogged up. Pipes exploded in the living room and kitchen. I had handfuls of muck (which contained stuff I'd rather not mention). As the dream ended and I woke up, I was knee deep in stinky black water.

2) I tried to organize an elaborate heist of money from a bookstore I worked in. Yet the bookstore the dream took place in was one I'd never seen or worked in before. Everything was set to go. The money went out the door. But at the end of the dream, I was called into an office and when I opened the door, police were waiting for me.